


What Day Is It

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft Stuff [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Angry Mycroft, Angst, M/M, Not Eating, Passing Out, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6892405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:</p><p>So, we all agree Sherlock doesn't have a particularly healthy lifestyle. What if John comes home one day and finds him passed out on the floor, or greeting him just to pass out next?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're a Brat

"Sherlock?" Mycroft yelled up the stairs. "Get down here, I need your help. You'll like this case as well." He waited and waited and waited until finally sighing. "Sherlock Holmes, I thought we had got over this little game of yours?" He continued to call up the stairs as he took a step at a time.

By the seventh step, he knew something was wrong and he bounded the rest of the way up to the flat. As Mycroft entered B, it was to find his baby brother passed out in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He knelt and swiftly felt for and found a pulse. "Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?"

It was thready and weak, but there. He didn't know whether to sigh in relief or panic. At the sound of the door downstairs he knew it was John, Mrs. Hudson had entered just before he had. He ran to the door. "John!"

The doctor glanced up, dropped his briefcase and coat and raced up to join him.

Mycroft was pacing around; panicking, he'd clearly gone for that option

John gave Sherlock a quick examination, taking his pulse himself and checking pupil reactivity. "If it's drugs, it's nothing you warned me he used to take, but I don't think that's it. Get me a damp flannel, cold water." He rolled Sherlock onto his side just in case. "If we can't rouse him enough to learn what happened, we'll have to call 999."

"He hates hospitals," Mycroft fretted.

"Then he'd better bloody well wake up."

Mycroft nodded nervously, rushing off to get what John had asked for.

"Sherlock, you utter prat, you had best wake up. Mycroft won't be able to handle it if you don't. Neither will I." John looked up and took the flannel the flustered government official had stuck in his face. "Ta." The doctor started wiping down Sherlock's face and neck. "Wake up, dammit!"

When he didn't respond, Mycroft ordered John out of the way. Not wanting to, but intrigued, the doctor moved back. Mycroft tipped the bowl of cold water over and allowed the contents to splatter his baby brother detective

Spluttering, Sherlock's eyes popped open and he tried to sit up, but John pushed him back down. "Take it easy and tell us what happened."

He just stared at John and then at Mycroft. "John? Mycie? What the hell?" He coughed again.

"How about we ask the questions, little brother." The doctor helped Sherlock to sit up. "I know it wasn't cocaine." He shot a look at Mycroft. "And I don't believe you took anything else." He tried to put conviction in his voice, but there was still the hint of a question there.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I haven't taken anything." His hand shook as he raised it to his forehead. He felt dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut and fell into John's waiting lap.

Mycroft stood above the pair of them, his arms folded. "Lock, what did you do?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock gasped out, "Nothing." When the room stopped spinning, he added, "Why does everyone assume I've done something?"

"Because you usually have." John smoothed his curls back from his brow. "What experiment were you running? Maybe something got into your system."

"No experiment," the detective said miserably.

Mycroft crouched down beside the pair of them trying to cushion his unimpressed glare at his brother. "I won't be mad, neither will John," he glanced at the blond to confirm. At his nod he went back to looking at Sherlock. "Please, 'Lock, just tell us so we can help."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock let out a resigned sigh. "If I could give you an answer, I would, but I. Didn't do. Anything."

"That's it, then. Mycroft, help me get him up. We're taking him to the hospital."

"What?" Sherlock squeaked. He tried to make himself a dead weight, but John and Mycroft were stronger than they looked, especially together. "No! Why should I have to… argh my head," he used his free hand to rub at his eye.

"Because we don't know what's wrong with you, you great lump." John got his arm around Sherlock's waist and steadied him.

"Please, Mycie, don't make me go! You know how I hate hospitals."

Mycroft just shook his head, he bent down and lifted Sherlock up out of John's arms. "We don't know what you've done. If you won't tell us John can't judge whether or not you can stay at home."

Sherlock bit his lip. "What day is it?"

With a sharp look in the detective's direction, John froze. "Tuesday. Why?"

Sherlock hid his head in his older brother's neck.

"Sherlock Holmes, you will tell me right now what's important about the day," John demanded.

Mycroft glanced at John and kicked open their bedroom door. "He hasn't eaten in days."

"We should bloody well take him to hospital to prove a point!" The doctor grumbled watching the youngest of the trio get lowered to the bed.

Sherlock grabbed a pillow and covered his face, hiding. Mycroft jerked it away. "I don't think so, baby brother, do you? You can face John whilst I go heat up some soup for you."

"I didn't do it on purpose," the detective protested. "I just forgot."

"You forgot!" John yelled. The doctor waited until Mycroft had gone to deal with some food for his little brother before he continued. "I asked you just this morning if you'd eaten before I went to work and you said you had. I asked you yesterday and the day before! In fact I ask you everyday and you either lie to me or grunt!"

"I don't lie, John. When you ask, I remember the last time I ate and it seems like just minutes ago. Food's not important, anyway."

"Not important. Not important!" John stepped to the side of the bed and managed to loom.

Sherlock shrank back. "John, don't be like this."

"Mycroft Holmes, you better get your arse in here and protect your baby brother like you're always so fond of doing."

"What? Why?" He appeared at the door almost instantly.

"From me beating the crap out of him for his insane comments."

"John, go calm down, finish heating the soup." Mycroft waved the doctor towards the door and waited for him to leave. He looked at his brother. "John puts up with more than he should from you."

The detective scowled. "I'm my own person, Mycroft. I do what I want, when I want."

"You're a brat, you know that right?"

"Myc-"

"No, Sherlock, no! Shut it." Mycroft sat on the bed and stared at his defiant brother. "Once, just once, you are going to do something so monumentally stupid that we won't be able to help you. What happens then?"

Sherlock was scowling again, but before he opened his mouth to retaliate he looked at his brother, really looked. He didn't look great, pale and worn, worry, he concluded. A rush of guilt over swept him suddenly, something he wasn't overly used to. "I'm sorry, Myc."

For a long moment, Mycroft didn't say anything, then he looked towards the bedroom door. "Thank you, but I'm sorry won't fix it when you're dead and it certainly won't fix John when something happens to you due to your own carelessness."

The doctor stood in the door, a tray in his hands. "He's right, 'Lock."

Sherlock smacked the bed weakly with his fists. "It's not my fault I forgot!" He yelled.

John's mouth was set into a tight, grim line. "Stop talking and eat. We can argue about your childishness later." The detective looked as if he wanted to argue further. "Don't."

This time the scowl was sent at the food and he folded his arms in protest.

John huffed in annoyance, he wasn't the only one, Mycroft mimicked him almost perfectly. "If John and I have to tie you down to make you eat, Sherlock, we will. Now grow up."

Taking the tray, he settled it across his lap as he sat up. Much to Sherlock's embarrassment, his stomach rumbled. He glared at the other two men, daring them to say anything. When they didn't he took a spoonful of soup.

John was not in the mood to coddle him so he walked away. The stupid idiot was going to make himself seriously ill because he couldn't be bothered to have a bowl of cereal of a morning. Well sod him.

Sherlock started to move the tray aside, intent to go after John.

"Eat first if you want John to listen to anything you have to say." Mycroft crossed his arms and gave his brother a stern look. "You gave us both a fright. Do make this one small concession."

"It's my body. I'll eat what I want."

Mycroft couldn't believe the audacity of his baby brother.

John paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at the two Holmeses. "If that's your attitude you'll bloody well do it without me."

Sherlock panicked. "John?! What do you mean?"

Turning around, the doctor presented a pale, resigned face. "I can't do this anymore. If you were to get killed doing the Work, I would be devastated. If you got killed because you hared off by yourself, I'd be furious. If you die because you can't be arsed to eat! I'm not going to stay around to watch it." With that John was out of the door.

"Mycie!"

"No, Sherlock, no! Grow up. He's right, in fact, he's more than right. You're bloody stupid and irresponsible. I don't blame him for going. Actually," he straightened up and moved to the door. "Eat. I'll send someone around tomorrow to ensure you do."

The detective looked down at his bowl of soup. It was blurry and wavered in his vision. If John was gone, why should he bother eating? Why should he bother doing anything ever again? His belly rumbled again and it was answer in itself. He made quick work of the remaining soup and then downed the glass of water on the side of the tray. For once, he found himself wanting his brother, if he couldn't have John then Mycroft was a close alternative.

He threw the tray back and rolled from the bed, intent on finding one or both of them. Running through the flat, he started down the stairs. John was sitting there on the bottom step with his head in his hands. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

"John…" Sherlock began.

The doctor turned and presented his boyfriend with a tear streaked face. It made Sherlock stagger back a step. He'd never, never seen John cry.

"You're a fucking idiot, do you know that?" John said, shakily.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"This transport nonsense is bollocks."

"What can I do?"

The doctor just turned his face away, prepared to walk out the flat if Sherlock came any closer.

"Please, John. What can I do to make you come back inside?"

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "I can't, I just…"

He trailed off as the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat opened.

"Boys, what are the pair of you doing?"

They both paused. "Nothing, Mrs. Hudson," they answered together.

"Then clear off up the stairs, my program is on."

John watched as she closed the door behind her, then turned to glare at the detective.

"2 rules."

Sherlock nodded.

"1) you eat 3 meals a day for the next month and then we'll discuss it again. 2) you sleep at least 6 hours every night. Same applies."

Sherlock nodded again, then he thought better of it. "Yes, John." For a moment, he stood there shuffling his feet. "I don't want to make you feel this way. If you can't trust me, trust that." He looked down at the floor, wishing for John to say everything was ok and he was forgiven.

Sighing, John stood and looked at his boyfriend. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."


	2. It's Called Cuddling

Sherlock paced the room nervously. It had been a month since he had passed out from not eating and earning John's anger. Since then, he hadn't missed a single meal and had slept 6 hours every night. His boyfriend had promised they would talk after one month. That time had arrived. Sherlock only hoped his behaviour had got him back in John's good graces, but John was at work. He didn't usually go into work on a Saturday, but the clinic had been desperate and he had promised it was only for the morning.

That left a nervous Sherlock to pace the flat.

After an hour, he had almost worn a path in the floor and the coffee table had started to creek each time he stepped up and onto it.

The detective glanced at the clock and his stomach flipped. He'd never survive until John got home. He'd die of dread. In fact, his impending death was imminent. He stopped in his track - imminent death. That was a valid reason to go to the clinic.

As he made his way downstairs, the front door opened. John was dripping wet from a normal rainy London summer day. He glanced up and saw Sherlock. "You weren't going anywhere, were you, Sherlock?"

The detective looked around innocently. "No, John."

"You were. Where?"

"I was dying, John. What choice did I have?"

"You were dying, but you're not now."

"Right. Now you're home. I might still die today, but not until after our conversation."

"Conversation?" He frowned. "Oh, yes. I wouldn't be too concerned about it, Sherlock, it's not like it's your exam results or anything."

The younger man didn't look convinced.

"Go on. Up the stairs."

Sherlock chewed his lip furiously as he climbed the stairs. This was so much more important than exams, the results of which, he'd never cared about in the least. He stopped in the doorway to the flat, afraid to take the next step and enter.

John was behind him in moments, pushing him inside. "Go and sit down," he ordered, making his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Sitting in his chair, Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest. If this conversation went pear shaped... His heart rate sped up and it suddenly got hard for him to breathe.

John walked in a few moments later with two mugs. "Sherlock, I don't know what you are worrying about." He handed him his mug of tea, sweeter than usual. "Now, put your feet on the floor."

Sherlock obeyed immediately, like it was the base of their imminent conversation.

"And... relax. You look like a statue." The doctor watched his boyfriend try and fail to do as he had asked. "Right. Sod this." He sat in Sherlock's lap and kissed him until some of the tension left his body. "Better?"

The detective looked up at him in apprehension.

"Seriously, Sherlock, what did you think was going to happen?"

He shrugged.

John cupped the detective's cheek. "I'm not angry anymore. You've done great this last month. I haven't had to remind you to eat a single time."

Sherlock tried to smile, but couldn't manage it.

"That's going to change now though, isn't it?" He asked. "Now that the month is over? You'll go back to before… to making yourself ill."

Sherlock shook his head so hard his neck popped. "You'd get mad and leave."

John sighed. "I'd get mad if you made yourself sick, yes, but... There's no way I could ever leave, not really. Still..."

"I won't do it again."

"You mean…"

"I'll eat and drink and sleep and everything."

John stared at him for a moment, a frown drawing across his forehead. "I don't expect you to be perfect all the time, OK? I know you. If you try to keep that up, you'll eventually tell me to fuck off... Look. I just want you to take care of that transport of yours so it doesn't break."

Sherlock nodded once, not sure what else to say. "John, I… I mean… recently I've been feeling better. More energy… my 'transport' is happier."

The doctor grinned, feeling triumphant. "See! That's why they put doctor in front of my name." He ran a finger along Sherlock's jaw.

The detective nodded again, watching John. "It's never been a problem. Until now."

"Maybe," John gave him a chaste peck on the cheek, "you just never noticed before."

Sherlock squirmed. "Maybe I never had a reason to. No one ever cared. Well, I suppose Mycroft did, but he was always so pompous about it. Not like you… Can this dreaded conversation be over now?" Sherlock asked, shifting and fidgeting were he sat below John.

"Yes, this conversation can be over as long as you remember what you've learned."

Still John didn't get up.

"John?"

"Yes, babe?"

"You're still sitting on me."

"Yes, babe." This time it was a statement.

"If the conversation is over shouldn't you get up?"

"You have tiptoed around me for the last month. It's my own fault, I suppose. I know you thought I was furious and I was, at first. I'd like to make it up to you."

"By sitting on me?" He repeated.

Sherlock deplored repeating himself and yet here he was doing it freely.

"Yes, by sitting on you."

"I don't understand."

John chuckled. "It's called cuddling, you git." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck burried his face in his curls.

"Oh." The detective wrapped his arms around John and hugged him. "Like this?"

"I'm glad you realise what you mean to me."

"You love my transport. So I love it. Simple."

"That's... Damn. I love you, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
